


love me like you

by starlitfics



Series: ties that bind us (geraskier a/b/o family) [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Domestic Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Parenthood, Pregnancy, Scenting, Short & Sweet, Tenderness, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, self indulgence at its finest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23451538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlitfics/pseuds/starlitfics
Summary: There’s a pause, in which Geralt almost loses himself in the deep, pleading oceans of his lover’s eyes not for the first time. But then there is warmth, as Jaskier throws his arms around the witcher’s neck and pulls himself unceremoniously into his alpha’s arms.“You’re home,” murmurs Jaskier. His voice is but a low, warm breath, muffled against Geralt’s skin. It is all he can do to keep himself from shuddering at the feeling.Geralt comes back from fulfilling a contract to return to the side of his mate and oncoming child. Beneath a starry sky, he greets those that he left momentarily behind, and takes a while to reflect on what — andwho— his family has become.Short, sweet, and impossibly self-indulgent. There's really no plot to be had; just mindless domestic fluff.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: ties that bind us (geraskier a/b/o family) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696555
Comments: 28
Kudos: 470





	love me like you

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes quarantine be like (ignores schoolwork) (plays animal crossing) (writes self indulgent geraskier content) (plays animal crossing)  
> i was feeling inspired after writing my last piece, so i decided to take a spin at some of my own geraskier omegaverse content! there's really not much of a plot here - it's just me exploring some interactions and characterizations through the art of mindless fluff. so... not much different from what i usually write.  
> also, this is the first time i've written geralt on this account, so i hope y'all like him! i find him fun to write, even if he's a little hard to characterize - he's a lot different in the show than in the books, so finding a balance can be... tricky. but, i digress.  
> happy reading!

It’s begun to rain by the time he returns, a slow drizzle gradually giving way to a chilly autumn shower, clouding over the evening sky with a dull shade of gray. When he had first caught a glimpse of the light of the inn in the distance, he had just barely thrown his hood over his head, nudging Roach on a little faster. Now, as he comes upon the entrance, his cloak is soaked almost entirely through, and said mare seems more than thoroughly annoyed that she’s been made to ride in such conditions.

As he slips off the saddle, Geralt gives her a pat on the flank. She looks at him through a gaze seemingly far too knowing (and judging) for a horse.

“Sorry, Roach,” he murmurs, hauling his pack off her side. She doesn’t look like he believes him.

A frazzled-looking teenage boy approaches from the inside of the stables housed next to the inn. Geralt gives the stablehand a once over, and then offers him an apologetic glance through the side of his gaze.

“She might be a handful,” he says. Roach nudges him harshly with the top of her head, and Geralt gives her a look. He knows that horses can’t glare, but if they could, he’d imagine it would look like that.

He makes sure to toss the stablehand an extra coin, before heading inside.

The inn is a cozy, well-kept little place, seated just on the outskirts of Oxenfurt. Geralt gives the innkeep a half-hearted greeting — which, truth be told, is not much more than a gruff _‘hmm’_ — before trudging his way up the stairs.

He finds his — _their_ — room quickly enough. After all, even if he hadn’t remembered which one it was, he has the nose of an alpha and a witcher on his side. The moment he’d entered the inn, he had picked up the familiar scent — lilacs and roses with a hint of lemon, along with the newer, subtler undertones of something milky and sweet. And when he slips the key into the lock and nudges the door open, the smell envelops him like the warmth and familiarity of coming home.

Geralt is quiet as he clicks the door shut, lest he risk waking his mate, who slumbers peacefully beneath the sheets. Jaskier is laying on his side — as is customary, these days, for no other position will ease the ache in his back — with his back to the door. From his place in the doorway, Geralt can see his messy brown curls splayed across the pillows, as well as the subtle rising and falling of his low, even breaths. For a long, quiet moment, Geralt is quite content to stand there and look at him.

(Only a moment, though.)

He doesn’t even bother to toe out of his boots — rather, Geralt simply hangs up his soaking wet cloak and makes his way to his lover’s bedside. As he rounds the bedpost, he finally catches a glimpse of Jaskier’s sleeping face. Long lashes brushing against his cheeks, soft lips ever so slightly parted… it makes a familiar warmth blossom in Geralt’s chest.

Slowly, Geralt lowers himself to sit on the bed beside him. Instinctively, he reaches out to brush a lock of hair gently behind Jaskier’s ear — and whether it be by pure intuition or his lover’s touch, his mate begins to stir.

Jaskier wakes slowly, as he always does. A soft noise pulls itself from his lips before his face scrunches up, and he shifts his position beneath the covers. Geralt’s sure that he’s just planning on going back to sleep, so he lets his thumb gently trace the curve of his cheekbone to catch his attention. Had this been any other morning, it probably wouldn’t have worked — but Jaskier, who has been without his alpha’s touch for near to a week now, stirs even further.

Ever so slowly, his lashes flutter open, revealing those brilliant blues that Geralt hadn’t known just how badly he’d missed until this very moment. He turns his head in Geralt’s direction, but doesn’t quite see him, his mind still fuzzy with sleep. Geralt, with patience he swears must rival a saint, keeps his hand lingering on the omega’s face all the while, waiting for the moment it all comes together. Indeed, a second later, Jaskier blinks, expression still clouded by drowsiness and perplexity — until the last piece of the puzzle seems to click into place, and his eyes come alight with recognition, a gasp drawing itself from his lips.

“Geralt,” he breathes, voice soft and breathless. Even in the darkness, Geralt can see Jaskier’s cornflower blues come alive as he meets his lover’s gaze. His scent shifts, the sour smell of confusion giving way to the rosey sweet smell of pure adoration, and the warmth that had been pooling in Geralt’s chest floods through his entire body all at once.

There’s a pause, in which Geralt almost loses himself in the deep, pleading oceans of his lover’s eyes not for the first time. But then there is warmth, as Jaskier throws his arms around the witcher’s neck and pulls himself unceremoniously into his alpha’s arms.

The embrace Geralt brings him into is instinctual, even if it is somewhat adjusted, these days. The witcher is quick in securing his arms around the small of Jaskier’s back, lest his added weight throw his balance off entirely. He arches his neck not to show submission, but rather so that the bard can bury his nose against the crook of it and breathe in the scent of his alpha that he’s been missing for so long. Geralt, likewise, presses his nose to the top of Jaskier’s messy head of hair. It smells faintly of lavender shampoo, but mostly of the floral, sweet scent that he has come to know so well.

“You’re home,” murmurs Jaskier. His voice is but a low, warm breath, muffled against Geralt’s skin. It is all he can do to keep himself from shuddering at the feeling.

“Yes,” is all he says, for he doesn’t quite agree, but he knows that the omega is not entirely wrong, either. “I am.”

In the past, Geralt thinks, he would have hardly considered this — a single bedroom in one of countless inns — much of a _home._ He’s learned, though, that home is less of a matter of where, and more one of _whom._ Whether it is tucked safely in a warm bed or bouncing along in Roach’s saddle, Geralt knows that his home lies safely in the warm body that is tucked into his embrace.

(Which isn’t to say, of course, that he’d ever say that out loud. Jaskier teases him enough as it is.)

Speaking of Jaskier — his omega seems to have finally gotten tired of scenting him to death, as he lifts his head up from Geralt’s neck to beam up at him through a sleepy gaze.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” he sighs, leaning up and pressing his forehead gently to Geralt’s brow. “How long has it been, Geralt? Weeks? Months? Years?”

“Five days,” says Geralt. Jaskier huffs.

“Too long, love,” he insists, “too long. I can’t stand being away from you, these days. It makes me all jittery, like my nerves are being frayed.”

An uncomfortable pang of guilt strikes Geralt deep in the pits of his stomach. In theory, he knows that Jaskier doesn’t say that with the intent of making him guilty — but in practice, it does just that. They may be approaching two decades at each other’s sides — and Jaskier may be no stranger to being apart from his beloved — but things are different now. Times are changing. _They_ are changing, as individuals and as mates, and it stirs up a primal, inexplicable sense deep from within Geralt’s inner alpha. The sense that he belongs at his omega’s side, in times like these, and that he shouldn’t be leaving his mate behind when he’s in such a delicate state.

It’s been affecting Jaskier, too; Geralt can tell. He’s always been the clingy sort, never one to be by himself if he doesn’t have to be, but this past half year has been something new entirely. It’s not within Jaskier’s character to be nervous, but the farther he strays from Geralt’s side, the more jittery he gets. Geralt supposes, perhaps, that it is all part and parcel of what is to come.

“I’ll make it up to you, then,” he eventually says, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s cheek.

“You’d better,” his omega warns. “If you’d been gone much longer, I bet you I would have started breaking out, and then neither myself or my skin would have ever forgiven you.”

Geralt snorts, fighting the smile that threatens to pull at his lips. “You would have found a way.”

Jaskier’s grin turns coy, his eyes crinkling near the edges with mirth. His arms slowly unfurl themselves from around Geralt’s neck only so he can cup Geralt’s face between his palms.

“Maybe if you kissed me enough,” he murmurs, his voice a warm breath against the alpha’s lips. And in this moment, with his love in his arms and his scent enveloping him like a blanket, Geralt can do nothing but comply.

Jaskier is, by all accounts, a phenomenal kisser, even if he does taste slightly of morning breath. He is skilled at finding that perfect balance between demanding and gentle, and Geralt is beyond content to kiss him until they’re both gasping for air.

Jaskier is the first to pull away, even if he does punctuate it with a few brief kisses to Geralt’s neck. Once more, his nose finds its way to the raised bite scar on his alpha’s scent gland, and he takes in a long, contented inhale.

“You smell good,” Jaskier sighs, nuzzling further into the warmth of Geralt’s skin. “How are you allowed to smell so good after all that witchering?”

Geralt lets a hand come up and loosely tangle itself in Jaskier’s mess of brown curls.

“Maybe you’ve finally come around to onions,” he says. Jaskier snorts.

“Believe me, I’ve smelled you at the peak of heroics and heartbreak, and it’s nothing like this,” the omega insists. “You just smell… _good._ Like… like juniper, maybe, or oak. It’s like an old fireplace that’s cooling down, but still keeping you nice and cozy and warm.”

It’s meant to be a compliment, to which Geralt only has one reply; “Hmm.”

A pause. And then, in a low, soft whisper;

“You smell like home.”

 _As do you,_ thinks Geralt — but like most things, it is left unsaid. Instead, he leans close and murmurs huskily into Jaskier’s ear.

“Do you plan on scenting me all night?”

He feels Jaskier smile against his skin.

“Well, I’d quite like to kiss you silly, and maybe some more,” Jaskier says, flourishing his implications with a wink. “But… there’s someone you’ve neglected to greet, darling.”

Geralt arches a brow. Jaskier, eyes twinkling with mirth, lets his fingers drag their way slowly down the witcher’s arm just far enough so that he can lace them in between Geralt’s. With their hands intertwined, Jaskier tugs ever so slightly, nudging Geralt forward until his palm is resting gently atop the swell of the omega’s middle.

Briefly, their eyes meet. Jaskier’s oceans of blue are shining with fondness, seeming to say something akin to _‘go on, go ahead.’_ And so he does.

They settle into a familiar rhythm. Loathe as he is to let go of his love, Geralt slides off the bed and onto the floor, kneeling at his side. Jaskier, in tandem, throws the covers aside and swings his legs off the bed so that he’s sitting in front of the other.

Now that they’ve moved, the very source of all of their fears and jitters and excitements is crystal clear in Geralt’s vision. At six months along, the swell of Jaskier’s bump is prominent enough that he can hardly go a day without bemoaning his former figure, but not so large that he’s truly begun to suffer. Currently, it’s being somewhat swallowed by Jaskier’s nightshirt — which, all things considered, is just one of Geralt’s old shirts that his mate has snatched up and refuses to give back until it’s lost his scent.

Slowly, Geralt tucks his thumbs underneath the hem of Jaskier’s (his) shirt, tugging it up and up until his rounded middle is laid bare to the night air. Almost instinctively, Jaskier rests a hand atop it, letting out a brief sigh. Geralt lets his fingers splay out on either side of his lover’s belly until he’s practically cradling the life within with rough, calloused hands.

Somewhere above him, Jaskier shifts.

“Well, look at that,” he muses, a soft smile gracing his visage. “Someone’s awake.”

Sure enough, Geralt feels the babe stir beneath his touch. With bated breath, he leans close enough that the tip of his nose is pressing against the taut skin — and after a long moment, he finally feels a firm nudge to his palm. Jaskier, who is still smiling fondly down at him, rubs a thumb back and forth across his skin.

“They’re probably upset that I’m not asleep, the picky little thing,” he says. “Even though I seem to recall that _someone_ wouldn’t stop kicking me in the ribs just earlier tonight.”

As if in response, the baby gives another kick — this time, harsh enough that Jaskier lets out a little _‘oof.’_

“Wonder who that comes from,” says Geralt dryly. Jaskier grimaces, tugging harshly at a strand of his alpha’s white hair.

“They’ve been restless for days, you know,” he says. “Only settling down after they kicked themself to sleep. I think they missed you, love.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. Hearing that the child has been giving Jaskier trouble is no surprise, but he can only imagine that it’s because he’s six months with child — not because his alpha father was out fulfilling a contract.

“They didn’t notice,” Geralt huffs. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“Sure, easy for you to say, as the person who isn’t quite literally sharing a body with them,” he says. Geralt must still look unconvinced, because Jaskier continues on. “Believe me, Geralt, I can tell when they’re upset, and I think you got them properly annoyed. Maybe they missed having Daddy hold them like this, hmm?”

Geralt _‘hmms’_ right back, letting his lips press a chaste kiss to the stretched skin.

“Is that what it is?” Geralt asks, his voice a breathy murmur to the skin above Jaskier’s navel. There’s a pause, and then Geralt feels another nudge to his palm. Somewhere above him, Jaskier laughs.

“See? I knew it.”

Geralt feels one of Jaskier’s hands rest above his own. Wordlessly, he laces their fingers together.

“Well, I suppose they wouldn’t be ours,” Jaskier sighs, “if they weren’t stubborn as all hell. And while it was my internal organs that suffered because of it, that is kind of sweet, don’t you think? They missed you.”

And while Geralt would love to do nothing but deny it, he wonders faintly if they _had._ Perhaps it was part of why Jaskier was always so nervous whenever they were apart — it was merely an extension of their child, restless without the presence of both their parents beside them.

(Geralt thinks, but doesn’t say, that he may have just fallen in love all over again. He gives Jaskier’s belly another kiss.)

“And I you, little one.”

He feels the baby shift beneath his hands, but they must be finally beginning to settle down, as there are no more sharp kicks aimed at either of them. Jaskier gives his hand a squeeze.

“They love you, Geralt,” he says. Geralt looks up at him, and he must look dreadfully unimpressed, because Jaskier snorts. “Oh, don’t give me that look. Can’t you see how content they are, now that you’re here? It takes me a dozen lullabies to do what you manage in just a few grumbly words. They _know_ you, dear, and they love you.”

Which is a strange, foreign concept, but one that Geralt finds hard to deny. So he says simply, “Hmm.”

The baby has gone mostly still, perhaps finally preparing to settle into sleep once more, but Geralt is still listening. Maybe it’s the alpha in him, or the witcher, or even the _father_ — be it what it may, he can still hear the child even from their place within his omega’s belly. It’s a strangely calming sound — the fluttering beat of a tiny heart, or the swish of a limb through heavy liquid. It had perplexed him, the first time he heard it, but now it is as melodic and comforting to his ears as one of Jaskier’s songs.

Jaskier, who is still looking down at the two of them with a fond smile on his lips. Geralt meets his gaze, and his eyes twinkle with mirth.

“It won’t be much longer, hmm?” he muses, running his free hand along the curve of his belly. “Just another few months, little one, and we’ll have you in our arms. Isn’t that exciting?”

It _is_ exciting, just as much as it is _terrifying._ Geralt is no stranger to adaptation, but he imagines that the hardships of becoming a father don’t much overlap with that of becoming a witcher. The waters of parenthood are new and uncharted — and, truth be told, it is only the knowledge that he is facing them hand in hand with his mate that pushes him to step forward again and again.

But Geralt, never one to voice his sentiments out loud, merely presses another chaste kiss to Jaskier’s navel. He feels his mate shift, and then there’s a gentle hand combing itself through his tangled locks of white hair.

“Your father’s excited, too,” he says, “even if he’s not quite poetic enough to tell you. You’ll learn, little one, that our dear, stubborn witcher is filled to the brim with love — he just doesn’t like to use his words to show it.”

Geralt looks upwards, casting his mate a narrowed, warning glance. Jaskier, in turn, merely flashes a coy, toothy grin.

“Maybe he thinks I don’t notice,” he muses, twirling a lock of Geralt’s hair absentmindedly around his finger. “But I’ve got quite the keen eye. Did you know, dear one, that he’s always got his hand resting on you when he thinks I’ve fallen asleep? It’s like he’s trying to protect us, even when we’re safe. Isn’t that sweet?”

And suddenly, Geralt feels _incredibly_ called out. It doesn’t help, either, that Jaskier is staring down at him with that stupidly smug look on his face. From below him, Geralt scowls.

“Fuck off,” he growls, though it lacks any of the bite that would have made it convincing. Jaskier pinches the side of his arm either way.

“Hopefully you won’t grow up to be as foul-mouthed as he is,” Jaskier sighs. “He’s not the best example, is he?”

Geralt gives an indignant huff, pressing his forehead against the curve of Jaskier’s belly. He feels the hand in his hair move to gently cup his cheek.

“But he loves you,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt finally looks up to meet his gaze. His cornflower blues are as warm as ever, shining with fondness and something else Geralt can’t quite place. “and so do I. More than I could ever try to say. And we’re very, _very_ excited to meet you, little one.”

Which, in reality, Geralt is powerless to deny. He gives Jaskier’s bump another kiss, instead.

“I wrote them a song, while you were away,” Jaskier says. His voice is a little softer now, as it often gets, when he’s speaking of his music. “Do you want to hear it?”

Geralt says nothing, which Jaskier seems to take as an affirmative — or perhaps, more realistically, he was planning on singing it either way. It wouldn’t be surprising either way.

Wordlessly, Geralt rises to his feet, giving the swell of Jaskier’s belly one last gentle caress before making his way to the other side of the bed. He can feel the omega’s eyes on him as he peels off his outer layers of clothing, kicking off his boots and tossing the wet garments to the side. When he does finally settle into bed, it takes Jaskier but a few seconds to nestle against his side. Geralt loops an arm around his mate’s shoulders and brings him closer, watching as Jaskier lays a palm atop his middle and lets his eyes flutter shut.

There’s a brief pause, in which a soft, fond smile comes to Jaskier’s lips.

“I wrote it with you in mind,” he says. And before Geralt can think to ask what that means, Jaskier begins, in a low, melodic voice…

“ _If I could begin to be half of what you think of me,  
I could do about anything;  
I could even learn how to love._”

Geralt, too, lets his eyes fall closed. Loathe as he always is to admit it, the melodic rumbling of Jaskier’s voice never fails to settle whatever nerves may or may not be running astray. Somewhere beside him, Jaskier leans his head against his alpha’s shoulder.

“ _When I see the way you act,  
Wondering when I’m coming back,  
I could do about anything;  
I could even learn how to love like you._

_Love like you…_

_I always thought I might be bad,  
Now I’m sure that it’s true;  
Because I think you’re so good,  
And I’m nothing like you._”

All at once, Geralt is keenly aware of Jaskier’s gaze focused on him. He cracks an eye open, only to be met with a coy smile and frustratingly knowing pools of ocean blue.

“ _Look at you go, I just adore you,  
I wish that I knew;  
What makes you think I’m so special…_”

It is a low, soothing melody, but the lyrics are perplexing, for something penned by Jaskier. He seems to write a new song for the babe every other week, and they are always nothing but tender and achingly sweet. What he sings now, on the other hand, is… somber, somehow, and yet hopeful.

Geralt must look confused, and that also must be exactly what Jaskier wants — a glint of satisfaction crosses his face, and Jaskier’s grin grows ever wider.

“ _If I could begin to do something that does right by you,  
I would do about anything,  
I would even learn how to love._

 _When I see the way you look,  
Shaken by how long it took,  
I could do about anything,  
I could even learn how to love like you._”

It hits Geralt all at once, in a cold slap of realization that took far too long to catch up with him. The somber hopefulness, the reiteration on returning home, learning how to _love like you…_ The song may be for the babe, but it is also for Geralt. Or, perhaps, _from_ Geralt — a representation of the emotions that have gone unsaid, but somehow not unheard. Geralt snorts.

“Trying to speak for me now, are you?” he asks. Jaskier just smiles, leaning up and brushing a chaste kiss against Geralt’s lips.

“Well, someone had to,” he murmurs. “If I didn’t do anything, I’m sure you’d happily reply with nothing but disgruntled _‘hmms’_ until the end of your days.”

To which Geralt replies, “Hmm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, but Geralt can see the beginnings of a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. Naturally, he leans in and kisses it away.

Jaskier sighs, his breath warm against Geralt’s lips. For a brief, passionate moment, Geralt lets himself revel in the intimacy of the silence as their actions say what words cannot. But Jaskier, ever the poetic soul, eventually pulls back to let a breathless whisper tumble forth.

“I love you,” he murmurs, “with my heart, my soul, and whatever else you can think of. With all I have, Geralt of Rivia, I love you.”

And Geralt loves him just as much, if not infinitely more — but the words would mean so much less, coming from him, so he merely leans forward and presses his lips to Jaskier’s once more. He feels the omega smile against him — and then, in true Jaskier fashion, he leans forward, takes Geralt’s lower lip between his teeth, and _bites._

Geralt stifles whatever noise threatens to escape him at the feeling. When Jaskier pulls back, Geralt can see the mischief swirling in his cornflower blues.

“Didn’t you say,” whispers Jaskier, his hand snaking up underneath the fabric of his alpha’s shirt. “that you were going to make it up to me?”

Geralt kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> it's become a tradition for me to have jaskier sing at least once in every fic, i guess. i'm sure we all know the song [love like you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kUnRBltv7z4), which i've always seen as being more from geralt's perspective, so i had to work it in somehow! i debated having him sing it, but i know he wouldn't. bastard.  
> this is pretty short and a little rushed, but i hope it was enjoyable nonetheless! i was sort of just trying to rattle some of the ideas out of my brain and onto the page. i bet i'll never have what it takes to write a full length kidfic, but i'm always looking for ideas - so shout some my way, if you have any!  
> until next time! ヾ(＾∇＾)


End file.
